


Cold Comfort

by dragonnan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Huddling For Warmth, Is it Concussion or is it Love?, Maybe Both?, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Romantic Fluff, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock is a Snuggly Octopus, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:35:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24764755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: Molly and Sherlock are locked in a freezer.  They need to stay close for warmth.  Very close.  For warmth.No, seriously - that's the ooonly reason....Inspired by the "Huddling for Warmth" prompt on Tumblr
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 10
Kudos: 117





	Cold Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MizJoely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/gifts).



There was a clinical detachment to watching her fingertips gradually turn the faintest blue. Loss of circulation as extremities were the first to suffer from restricted blood flow in a bid to protect major organs. Medically fascinating, how the body reacted to extremes. Less so when it was her body and she could also experience the full effects of cold so profound it felt like blades sinking into her flesh. Were she alone she might even give in to the temptation to wallow, just a bit, in her misery. She had earned a measure of wallowing.

But all of that was pushed aside with the presence of another – likewise trapped. Sherlock lie beside her; zip ties encircling his wrists as well. However, he also sported a deep laceration to his scalp; result of a cricket bat welded by their attacker. And though she’d been conscious for going on fifteen minutes, he’d yet to awaken. So, hitching herself as close as she was able, Molly placed her bound hands on Sherlock’s shoulder, and gave a single, rough shake.

“Sherlock! Please! You have to wake up!”

The third time, in as many minutes, she'd shouted for him; not counting those frantic moments upon first gaining consciousness. This time, however, her efforts appeared to bear fruit as Sherlock groaned – legs shifting within the scarce allowance of his bindings, and cracked open one bloodshot eye.

“Mpphappnnzz...?”

While the words, themselves, were a long collection of mangled vowels and dropped consonants, Molly could conclude, with a fair amount of reliability, what he’d attempted to ask.

“The n-negative temperature room. How is your head?” Then Molly shook hers. “Sorry; of c-course it hurts. C-c-can you sit up if I help?” Though with all four limbs bound, as well, that would take some effort to accomplish.

Difficult to know if he’d followed her words – at the best of times Sherlock had a tendency to dip in and out of conversation depending upon his interest and whether or not there was something on a slide to pull his attention. Still, he leaned against her shoulder as, with awkward movements, she braced him up until they were, more or less, resting side by side.

It was instinct, to press up tight against his waning warmth, and she noted that he did the same though neither remarked upon it. They shivered in unison – deep, wracking trembles that shook them nearly to their bones. Molly could feel her jaw tightening from the breathtaking freeze and already it was difficult to speak clearly.

She couldn’t feel her hands.

“Mayh-hew Brooks... Your f-f-five o’ clock s-stabbing victim. Enforcer f-for Tad Un-underw-wood. N-n-no doubt some-something o-on the body would have pointed a f-finger towards... mmmm.... t-towards their less than l-legal operations. S-s-subcutanious implant, m-maybe, o-or perhaps s-something... something he s-swallowed. Unfortunate you were too s-slow in getting to the s-stomach contents.”

Molly turned her attention back to Sherlock. His eyes were closed tightly but there was something that almost appeared to be a smirk on his face. She would have kicked him if her legs weren’t so tightly bound that she she feared compromised circulation. Instead she found herself pressing ever more tightly against his side.

“So h-how long before John n-n-notices something is wrong and t-t-tries to track you d-down?”

That barely there smirk dropped from his face like it had never existed.

“S-seeing as he and R-Rosie are spending the weekend in Ludlow v-visiting his s-sister it may be a little while.”

Molly groaned, her head falling to his shoulder.

“F-fantastic.”

She could feel the stiff fold of his coat move beneath her cheek. “Of c-course, if one is to d-die, you could hardly f-f-find a more appropriate venue.”

Molly was caught precisely between dark humor and irritation – though ultimately it was a brief huff that broke through and she could feel a grin trying to turn up the corner of her mouth.

“You s-say that, now, but you r-realize it will likely be A-Aberly who will p-p-perform your autopsy?”

Sherlock stiffened. “Christ. Well, on s-second thought, perhaps we sh-should work harder on escape, then.” The serpentine movements of his body, under any other set of circumstances, would have had Molly blushing a furious shade of red. As it was the strongest emotion to come to the fore, once his movements revealed their true purpose, was indignation as his mobile slipped out onto the floor.

“How l-long have we been c-c-conscious and this is the f-first time you thought to m-mention you had a phone?”

Shifting his lanky shape into a slightly less canted position, Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the device only for it to slip from his grasp in a clatter.

“Damn.” He tried again but with no better result. “You'll n-need to call for help, I'm afraid.”

“My f-fingers are just as stiff as y-yours.” Molly protested; though she made several attempts to secure the mobile with no greater success. In frustration, she kicked her bound feet at the locked wheels of an empty trolley.

“You'll n-need to warm your hands. Here – p-place them beneath m-my coat.” Sherlock inched slightly closer and Molly turned to the side – grateful for small favors that Sherlock enjoyed the spectacle of an open coat spanning his form thus removing the complication of undoing any buttons.

His body was like a furnace as her hands pressed against his abdomen and she couldn't stop the small groan from slipping out – immediately followed by a hotter rush across the back of her neck. Avoiding his eyes, she curled herself into him until she managed to create a small cocoon of space. His own hands joined her within that small patch of warmth and she reached for him – doing her best to rub at his frozen fingers.

Her teeth began chattering harder as blood, reluctantly, began moving through her veins once more.

Before long she was able to flex her joints – though everything was still a bit rusty. Sherlock's fingers remained nearly immobile. However, that may have been due to the tightness of his restraints – the double layer of zip ties drawn so tight that they'd begun to cut into his wrists.

They couldn't wait any longer.

Shuffling back a bit, Molly, once more, curled her fingers around the plastic casing. Sensation was muted and her grip dodgy. However, this time, it didn't slip free. Sherlock directed her to dial and then, leaning down as much as he was able, spoke to someone on the other end who required some sort of code. This was given without so much as an eye roll. Afterward they huddled tightly once again – Molly's head resting over their hands and breathing as much warmth as she could manage over their knuckles.

However quickly their salvation arrived, it still felt like ages before the freezer door was forcibly opened. Expecting one of the night staff, Molly found herself blinking as no fewer than three people in dark suits entered the freezer to pull them out. Immediately thick, warmed blankets, were wrapped around their forms and the zip ties were clipped from their wrists and ankles. With their hands primarily useless they were both fed hot tea, liberally dosed with honey, and right away Molly felt life shivering back into her body.

It was the arrival of a forth person, however, that finally removed the anxiety clenching at the back of Molly's neck. Anthea – whom Molly had met exactly twice during Sherlock's time “Away”. Though she'd barely qualified as an acquaintance she had been kind and reassuring even if she hadn't been able to provide any information on Sherlock's movements. Only that he was still alive.

“There is a car outside whenever you're ready.”

Molly was already dreaming of her bed and perhaps a lie in – surely Mike wouldn't begrudge her an extra half hour in the morning. She rotated her stiff wrists preparatory to rising when, at her back, there was a hard thud. She whirled to see Sherlock down on his knees with one of the nameless agents at his side.

“Sherlock? Here, let me see.” Pushing away the hands and, with only a small wobble, she hurried to kneel alongside Sherlock.

“Does someone have a...?”

Anthea herself produced a very well stocked kit – her own eyes concerned as she passed Molly a small light. Molly checked pupil response – pleased to note they were of equal size and reactive. Still, that didn't necessarily rule out concussion – certainly not with how long he'd been down.

“Right, I think maybe an overnight of observation couldn't hur...”

“No.”

Molly rolled her eyes at the somewhat expected resistance. “Sherlock, if you have a brain bleed I'd prefer if you got checked over properly. I may be able to see whether or not you're breathing but what if your bloody heart stops?”

“Please; I've taken worse hits than this and walked away.” Never mind his current status still hunched over on his knees. Then Sherlock dipped his chin; peering up at Molly through his lashes. “Besides, I'm fairly certain you are more than capable of taking a pulse.”

She blinked; her cheeks warming. He really shouldn't be so damn good at that.

Glancing helplessly at Anthea, who shrugged before tapping rapidly into her phone, Molly sighed and pushed herself back to her feet. “Fine. But the moment you start leaking from your ears I'm having you back here, in a cot, no arguments!”

It took two of the agents to get Sherlock back to his feet, only for him to gulp ominously, before being hustled to the large metal sink where he vomited most of the meals he'd eaten over the past year. A few minutes of ragged breaths and gagging before he was helped into a chair where he wrapped both arms around his middle and sort of... wilted.

In the end, to Molly's endless misgivings, they were able to bundle Sherlock into the sleek black car parked out front. Molly slid in beside them while Anthea sat down across. Molly spent much of the drive using a flannel to wipe sweat from Sherlock's forehead and keeping a bucket close at hand. Thankfully there was no more vomiting, though Sherlock appeared a bit green around the eyes. By now a few plasters had been applied to the laceration to his scalp and the blood cleaned from his too pale skin. Deep bruising had already begun to form along the side of his face and nearly to his cheekbone. His left eye was somewhat swollen and Molly wouldn't be surprised to see it forced shut by morning.

There had been a short debate whether to take them to Baker Street or Molly's flat. In the end they opted for Molly's small home if only to avoid the augurous climb up those seventeen stairs.

Soon enough it was just the two of them, once more. Anthea had offered to stay but Molly had thanked her before sending her on. She enjoyed the woman's company but just hadn't the energy to do much more than climb beneath a quilt and curl on her couch.

Something woke her – the flat nearly black save for the illuminated numbers on her cable box. Then the alarm sounded again and she remembered setting her phone to go off every two hours. Familiarity of the flat's layout didn't save her from a rapped toe against the corner of the credenza. Not entirely successful in swallowing the curse born from that sharp pain, she hobbled the rest of the way to her bedroom door; left slightly cracked.

She loved her bed. A king sized mattress; one of her rare indulgences and, though she cursed at the expense whenever she had to replace the sheets, the payoff was worth it. Well, on the nights she actually had access to that soft acreage.

Large as the bed was, Sherlock managed to sprawl across the whole of it – all six feet claiming all but the edge. Molly took advantage of that bit of freed space as she sat beside him and placed a soft hand on his bicep. Immediately it tensed as Sherlock went still. She couldn't speak to any familiarity to his sleeping habits prior to his time Away. However, since making her flat a bolt hole, upon his return, Molly had quickly picked up on his wariness upon waking. Rather than shaking him, Molly removed her hand and softly began to speak – describing her actions while studiously ignoring him. Soon enough she heard his breath deepen and the bed dip as he shifted. Switching on the bedside lamp at its lowest setting, Molly turned back to see Sherlock studying her with his one working eye.

“Well that will make things a bit difficult to compare pupil size.”

Sherlock sniffed before pushing up against the headboard. “I have a headache, I'm nauseous, and your voice sounds like a marching band. Apart from that, I'm fine.”

Arms crossing, Molly regarded him sternly. “Fine? Your eye is swollen and black nearly to your hairline, you appear to have a golfball subliminally implanted beneath your scalp, and you've nearly lost your balance, twice, while sitting there.”

His expression mulish, Sherlock sank down just a bit and folded his arms across his chest.

Sighing, Molly exited for a few minutes; using the loo before returning to the room with a fresh icepack, a glass of juice, and two paracetamol. “Here. Apple cider; your favorite.”

Appearing put upon, as though he'd been asked to clean Toby's cat box, Sherlock accepted the juice and medication. Meanwhile, Molly straightened out the bedding and tossed the warm icepack into the corner to deal with in the morning. Then, taking back the empty glass, she helped Sherlock shift back down to the pillow before carefully resting the new icepack against his scalp. He winced as it touched against sensitive skin and Molly whispered an apology before straightening to douse the light.

Yawning, she took a step away before a hand closed around her wrist.

“Stay.”

“What?” The only light, now, came from the nightlight in the bathroom and Sherlock's face appeared nearly white in the dimness. He didn't release her, though his thumb fidgeted against the back of her hand.

“I'm...” His one good eye closed as he blew out a breath and shivered. “It's cold.”

“Oh.” Molly licked her lips. “Well, I... I can fetch another blanket. I have several in the cupboard. It gets so cold, in winter, and the heating has never worked quite right...”

“No.” Sherlock's hand tightened around hers and even gave a small tug. “Stay.”

“You really do have a concussion.” She murmured. And, yet, she found herself giving in – lowering herself into the space he'd provided.

Keeping to her tiny segment of mattress, body stiff, Molly nearly flinched at the touch that suddenly rested over her hands – folded tight over her chest. Sherlock didn't speak, but with a gentle tug, compelled her to unwind her body just a bit. Then he huffed.

“Your body heat is of little benefit at such a distance.”

Eyes squeezing tight and certain she had body heat to spare, going by the flames licking across her scalp, Molly finally, finally allowed herself to be dragged beneath the duvet – her small form cupped by Sherlock's long limbs.

She tried to ignore the intimacy – noting that Sherlock was, indeed, shivering. Still it was... nice.

Okay it was actually exceptional but...

He had a concussion. And with his low body fat he was prone to chills – little wonder he hadn't warmed up. She should have suggested the heated blanket or perhaps some hot tea...

“Molly.” The rumble of her name in his baritone, breathed against the back of her neck, lifted gooseflesh down her limbs that she was certain he could feel.

“Hm? What do you nee...?”

“Stop thinking.” His arms tightened around her until she was pulled flush against his chest; his arms caught up beneath her breasts.

It wasn't possible that he couldn't feel her heart ramming within her ribcage. And then his lips rested on the flesh behind her ear.

“Sleep.”

Of course, because _that_ was going to happen!

And, yet, with the only sound the scrape of branches against the wall from the tall aspen in her back garden, not to mention the steady breaths of the man clutching her like a favorite dolly, she couldn't ignore the peace of the moment.

Morning would come along soon enough to return things to normal.

And she felt so heavy.

As sleep closed around her, for just the briefest moment, Molly could swear she felt soft lips press against the back of her neck – a caress in triplicate against the skin above her shoulders.

And then the night took her to dreams. And everything was sunshine.


End file.
